Already Gone
by DrowinginRedInk
Summary: The Halloween attack may have been awful, but at least it had a reason. It was just like Atticus had said: he'd destroyed any credibility Bob Ewell had, and he'd taken it out on Jem and me. But what began to happen to Atticus a year later, when the gossip had long ago died down and Maycomb was back to its tired old self, that was worse, because it had no reason.


It started slowly, too slowly for Jem or me to notice. A string of days would go by where Atticus would wake up late, or go to bed early. Then a few weeks later, he'd be struck by coughing fits. Another few weeks, and it'd seem his appetite had left him entirely and took several days to return. Enough time passed between incidents that we had almost forgotten the last one by the time the next one occurred, and since it was never the same thing twice, we didn't realize until far later that they were connected. But no month went by without something. Still, it was slow and spread out enough that I thought it would pass.

I first entertained the idea that it might not as the incidents crept closer together. Three week periods of health over the summer became two and a half in the fall, two in the winter, one in the spring. More distressing to me, though, as the months continued on, was the shift in his appearance. He had always said he was old, but I was starting to truly see it in the slowing of his strides, the heaviness of his eyes, and how dull and hollow all his advice became, though it had once been so brilliant.

Still, he only began to spiral in the summer of 1937. I noticed it most as we read in the evenings. I'd lean against him, and his skin would be burning. By the end of the sessions, his voice would be fading, as if there was no air left in his lungs. The times we read, too, became earlier and earlier, and despite the way the times crept forward, he still had to begin going to sleep right after we finished. In those evenings, it became horrifically clear how his face had turned ashen and how far his cheeks and eyes had sunken into his face.

When it was time for him to go up to Montgomery, I was terrified. I didn't want to see how much his condition might worsen over just two weeks, and more than anything, I feared that he wouldn't return at all. When the session was extended, and he said he didn't know exactly when he'd be home, all I could bring myself to do each day was stand out in our yard and wait for his car to come down our street.

* * *

It had become so terribly clear something was wrong, and yet Atticus would never acknowledge it. Aunt Alexandra, Jem and I had to store away our worry, confining it to our own minds and communicating only through stolen, worried glances. He was the head of the household, and ultimately, none of us dared to confront him head on. Still, we all had our ways of attempting to reach through.

Atticus would retire early from one of our reading sessions, and after days of barely comprehending what he had read because my mind had been consumed with worry, I would finally bring myself to say, "Atticus, you've been going to bed awful early lately." All I would get in response would be "I'm not as young as I used to be, Scout, and I'm only getting older. I need more rest."

Or Atticus would go into one of his coughing fits, his frail frame shaking over and over, and all of us in awe that he didn't collapse, and Aunt Alexandra would break the tension of the room by asking, "How long have you had that cough?" "Just a few weeks," he'd say. "No point in worrying about it." But I knew all any of us could think about were the countless coughs we'd heard within the past year.

Or Jem would find himself struck by some problem in school, or some dilemma that grasped his budding lawyer's mind, and it'd capture him so much that he would ignore how withdrawn and tired Atticus had been and ask him about it anyway, only to have it brushed aside. "It used to be that you'd always answer these things, Atticus? Why don't you anymore?" He'd say it was because Jem was old enough to figure them out for himself, but no one missed how Atticus didn't even dare to look Jem in the eyes as he answered.

And still, despite our efforts, the summer came and went and I could barely recognize him. All I could see was how the grey hair that had once only been present at his temples had grown to cover his entire head, or how his spine was permanently stooped. The man who had once seldom used his car, preferring to travel everywhere by foot, now seemed barely able to walk to the driveway every morning so he could drive to work. His wit was once unparalleled throughout the town, but I couldn't help hearing whispers that his work had began to slip. Aunt Alexandra was becoming less subtle in her attempts to reach him, begging him to see a doctor about that cough or at least take a good look at himself in a mirror whenever she thought Jem and I were out of earshot. It had become undeniable. Atticus was only getting worse, and he wouldn't do anything about it.

* * *

It was September, and I was trying to distract myself. I'd gone over to Miss Maudie's to help her with gardening. But as I tended to her plants, I couldn't remove the images of Atticus that morning from my mind. He'd had another fit, and after every cough, for one terrible moment his eyes were left completely vacant and I would wonder if he'd ever take another breath. His entire body had trembled, in a way that made it clear it couldn't carry on for much longer. I knew then that soon I would be watching him die, and yet he was still doing nothing. I was no longer able to stay obedient and let him ignore what was wrong.

I excused myself to go to the bathroom, but instead, I entered into Miss Maudie's kitchen and picked up her phone, fighting to keep my hands steady as I dialed Uncle Jack's number. He was a doctor after all; if anyone could fix Atticus, he could. And he was kind and funny, smart and yet odd, so obviously Atticus' brother and yet the two were so different. He would be able to understand my fears. He had to.

My voice was rush and ragged- it seemed I couldn't get the words out fast enough. "Uncle Jack, it's Scout. You have to come down and see us, as soon as you can. Just pretend it's a friendly visit. Atticus has been sick for months and months, and he won't do anything about it, and- Uncle Jack, I think he's dying. We've all been trying to get him to do something, but he won't, and we can't even talk about it because we're afraid he'll hear us. Uncle Jack, when he went up to Montgomery, I didn't think he'd even come back!" I was beginning to cry and I could scarcely even hear his reply over the sound of my own gasping breaths. He tried to ask me questions, but I could barely even respond, and after a moment, he stopped.

"It's alright now, Scout. I'll be in Maycomb as soon as I can. I'll do everything I can, I promise."

* * *

Three days later, he pulled into our driveway, and immediately Jem and I greeted him with hugs of relief. I'd managed to get Jem alone and tell him Uncle Jack was coming, but still, he looked at him as if it was merely an impossible dream, some sort of strange miracle that couldn't last.

"You can't tell him why you're here," I whispered, and Uncle Jack nodded solemnly, but as soon as he entered the house, it seemed he had no choice.

He froze in the doorway, with Jem and I on either side of him. His face immediately fell into the same worried wrinkles the rest of us had worn for months. He simply stared at Atticus, powerless and unmoving, both of their breaths echoing through the silent house. After a moment he spoke, slowly and breathlessly. "Atticus. What happened? You look like hell."

"Jack-" Atticus' face reminded me of my own, so many times, when he'd caught me doing something he'd warned against. It never matter exactly what I'd been doing, although more often than not it was fighting; every time, I would stand there, eyes wide, trying to hide my guilt behind a nervous expression. Now, instead of Atticus, it was Uncle Jack who spoke with certainty and clarity. Uncle Jack who knew what to do better than anyone else.

"Scout called me from Maudie's house, worried you'd drop dead at any moment and even more worried you'd punish her for trying to do anything about it. Your children are terrified, Atticus, and I know you can tell when something is wrong. Why have you been ignoring it?"

"I haven't been ignoring it. I though it would be best to wait to explain." For a moment, he seemed almost like himself, wise and always able to make the right decision for the family. He was Atticus, and I trusted him immensely to do that. Then Uncle Jack pounced.

"From how you look right now and how your children are acting, I doubt you've done anything but harm by staying silent."

Aunt Alexandra suddenly materialized from the kitchen. "Jack, he's the head of the house. He can choose what to tell us and when." Those days, that tone of hers, as if she always knew what was best, had only been used while talking to Atticus. When it was just her, Jem, and I, she softened a bit, in ways I never thought she would, showing all of her worry clear on her face. They were always fleeting moments, though, and the last thing I expected was for her to melt into that worry right before our eyes. "But Atticus, we have been worried. Please tell us "

Atticus settled into his chair, folded his hands, and took a deep breath. "I'd known there was something wrong with me all summer, but more often than not, illness goes away with time, so I left it alone and continued on with my business as if everything was normal. It was only when I could no longer manage to walk to the office that I knew it wouldn't go away on its own. I didn't want to worry you before I knew what was wrong. So I waited a few weeks until I had to go up to Montgomery, and as soon as the legislature finished our session, I called to tell you it'd been extended and went to the hospital."

"Atticus, you should have told me you were going- we were worried sick," Aunt Alexandra said, her voice beginning to speed up from the memory of her anxiety. "After you called, Scout never left the front yard, not even to sleep. I had to bring her cot out there for her. She never said it, but she was scared of the same thing all of us were. We thought you might not make it back to Maycomb."

"I was just as worried, Alexandra. Maybe I should have known you'd be too, but at that point, I was so preoccupied with my condition that I can't say I noticed it. Besides, it was for the best in the end. I know you mean well, but the second I got back you'd be doting over me. I don't want to be cared for like that until I have to be."

"What do you mean?" Aunt Alexandra said, and it was only her question that made me sure I'd heard those words at all. _Until I have to be._

"The doctors up there couldn't do much for me. They gave me a diagnosis that I have written down somewhere and some pills to make it a bit more pleasant, but in the end they sent me home after a few days saying to write my will and enjoy the time I have left. So I straightened out some final things in Montgomery and then returned home. I tried to proceed as normally as possible until today, knowing that as soon as you knew, I'd lose my last chance to appreciate our typical life."

I don't know what I would have expected to happen in response to that news, but it wasn't what did. Jem had spent years trying to be grown up and at age fourteen was nearly a man, but he quickly became a boy again and rushed into Atticus' arms. He clung to him like I had so frequently, up until his skin had become too hot for me to stand it, and let himself cry in front of us for the first time in years.

Aunt Alexandra didn't cry or faint, like seemed to be the duty of someone so ladylike. Instead, she made her way over to the door and stood between Uncle Jack and me, holding onto both of us for strength. Her breaths were deep and heavy, and it seemed as though she was not only trying not to cry, but also not to scream. Her face was flushed from the effort.

Uncle Jack was still, and though I was beside him, he suddenly seemed a world away. His face was solemn, but he didn't seem sad at all. He simply nodded, over and over. I should have know he wouldn't be surprised. He was a doctor, after all. A doctor would instantly be able to see that Atticus was beyond repair. But still, his lack of emotion astonished me.

As for me, I wanted to run, to scream, to cry. I had been right to be worried- he was going to die, after all- and not only that, he had known it all along and yet said nothing. He'd lied to us. He'd given no thought to the months I'd spent worrying, unable to speak and forced to hide the fear on my face. Not for one moment had he done what he'd once preached and stood in my shoes. He'd never realized that an entire summer had passed me by, wasted on half-hearted affairs because I couldn't enjoy anything while a deep fear for his life was hanging over my head. I tried to do what he hadn't and slip into his skin, but it was impossible. An Atticus who hadn't done the same before acting wasn't the Atticus I knew. He was too much of a stranger for me to try and understand him anymore.

As if in response, Aunt Alexandra asked, "Did you have to hide it? You know I'd leave you alone if you asked, and the children would too."

Atticus' thinning brow furrowed and he spoke again with a heavy tongue. "Well, the doctors said it wouldn't be long before my mind began to go along with my body. I didn't want to spend my last months of lucity with all of you thinking I'd already gone mad. I told Doctor Reynolds so that when I did start slipping and you had to contact him, he'd be prepared, and I stopped taking new cases, but I couldn't live with you having reason to doubt every one of my words when I haven't lost my mind yet."

From the determined look in his eyes and steady tone of his voice, he seemed to think he was telling the truth, but I knew better. He'd lost the consideration, kindness, the absolute sympathy for everyone that had made him Atticus Finch. The reasons everyone in town knew his name and the reason I had loved him so dearly were gone. Perhaps he could still reason and think, but it was painfully clear his mind had left him even before he'd gone to the hospital. Those rare qualities he'd possessed, the reasons I'd looked up to him more than anyone else I'd ever known, were gone forever, and so I knew: he may still have been breathing, but Atticus was already gone.


End file.
